Jack Gibson Quotes

Mom," Nathan called to her. Daisy pulled her gaze from the tent and the fleeting glimpse of Jack's bare back, the smooth planes and indent of his spine, the sliver of the white elastic just above the blue waistband of his jeans..."Hmm?" "What's a faaar ant?" he asked just above a whisper. "Fire." She chuckled and shook her head. "Fire ant. They have a nasty bite that burns." Nathan smiled. "Well, why didn't he just say fire?" "He thinks he did.

I know about safe sex," Nathan said, interrupting Jack's thoughts. Jack swallowed. "That's good." He smiled at his son, vastly relieved that there would be no hard questions about his own sex life. "What I want to know is..." Nathan stole a quick look back at the tent. "Where is the clitoris exactly?" Jack's smile fell and he opened his mouth. No words came out so he closed it. Nathan had no problem forming his words, though. "And what the heck is a G-spot?

The Matrix has its roots in primitive arcade games,' said the voice-over, 'in early graphics programs and military experimentation with cranial jacks.' On the Sony, a two-dimensional space war faded behind a forest of mathematically generated ferns, demonstrating the spatial possibilities of logarithmic spirals; cold blue military footage burned through, lab animals wired into test systems, helmets feeding into fire control circuits of tanks and war planes. 'Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts... A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding...

You can go out on Saturday and be friends with Jack and Jim, but I need you friendly with Jesus the next morning.

CYBERSPACE, AS THE deck presented it, had no particular relationship with the deck’s physical whereabouts. When Case jacked in, he opened his eyes to the familiar configuration of the Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority’s Aztec pyramid of data.

Thank you for the improvements you made... the lock and hinges... and the lion's-head knocker. I like it very much." Ethan's voice was soft. "Did you like the violets?" She hesitated before shaking her head. "No?" he asked, more softly still. "Why not?" "They reminded me that I might never see you again." "After tonight, you probably won't." "You say that every time we meet. However, you keep popping up like a jack-in-the-box, which has made me increasingly skeptical." Garrett paused before adding in an abashed tone, "And hopeful." His gaze caressed her face. "Garrett Gibson... as long as I'm on this earth, I'll want to be wherever you are." She couldn't help smiling ruefully. "You're the only one who does. I've been in a foul mood for the past two weeks. I've offended nearly everyone I know, and frightened off one or two of my patients." His voice was dark velvet. "You needed me there to sweeten your temper." Garrett couldn't bring herself to look at him as she admitted huskily, "Yes.

What happened to your arm?" she asked me one night in the Gentleman Loser, the three of us drinking at a small table in a corner. Hang-gliding," I said, "accident." Hang-gliding over a wheatfield," said Bobby, "place called Kiev. Our Jack's just hanging there in the dark, under a Nightwing parafoil, with fifty kilos of radar jammed between his legs, and some Russian asshole accidentally burns his arm off with a laser." I don't remember how I changed the subject, but I did. I was still telling myself that it wasn't Rikki who getting to me, but what Bobby was doing with her. I'd known him for a long time, since the end of the war, and I knew he used women as counters in a game, Bobby Quine versus fortune, versus time and the night of cities. And Rikki had turned up just when he needed something to get him going, something to aim for. So he'd set her up as a symbol for everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he'd had and couldn't keep. I didn't like having to listen to him tell me how much he loved her, and knowing he believed it only made it worse. He was a past master at the hard fall and the rapid recovery, and I'd seen it happen a dozen times before. He might as well have had next printed across his sunglasses in green Day-Glo capitals, ready to flash out at the first interesting face that flowed past the tables in the Gentleman Loser. I knew what he did to them. He turned them into emblems, sigils on the map of his hustler' s life, navigation beacons he could follow through a sea of bars and neon. What else did he have to steer by? He didn't love money, in and of itself , not enough to follow its lights. He wouldn't work for power over other people; he hated the responsibility it brings. He had some basic pride in his skill, but that was never enough to keep him pushing. So he made do with women. When Rikki showed up, he needed one in the worst way. He was fading fast, and smart money was already whispering that the edge was off his game. He needed that one big score, and soon, because he didn't know any other kind of life, and all his clocks were set for hustler's time, calibrated in risk and adrenaline and that supernal dawn calm that comes when every move's proved right and a sweet lump of someone else's credit clicks into your own account.

He slotted some ice, connected the construct, and jacked in. It was exactly the sensation of someone reading over his shoulder. He coughed. "Dix? McCoy? That you man?" His throat was tight. "Hey, bro," said a directionless voice. "It's Case, man. Remember?" "Miami, joeboy, quick study." "What's the last thing you remember before I spoke to you, Dix?" "Nothin'." "Hang on." He disconnected the construct. The presence was gone. He reconnected it. "Dix? Who am I?" "You got me hung, Jack. Who the fuck are you?" "Ca--your buddy. Partner. What's happening, man?" "Good question." "Remember me being here, a second ago?" "No." "Know how a ROM personality construct works?" "Sure, bro, it's a firmware construct." "So I jack it into the bank I'm using, I can give it sequential real-time memory?" "Guess so," said the construct. "Okay, Dix,. You are a ROM construct. Got me?" "If you say so," said the construct. "Who are you?" "Case." "Miami," said the voice, "joeboy, quick study.

THE MATRIX HAS its roots in primitive arcade games,” said the voice-over, “in early graphics programs and military experimentation with cranial jacks.

Strap yourself into the jump-seat, make sure your harnesses are pulled really tightly, and let Scott ‘Sunshine’ Gibson give you the flight of your life. Join him as he meets up with some old and new comrades, Ryan ‘shut-eye’ Davis, Lawrence ‘sticky’ LaBelle, Jack ‘crackerjack’ McCleary, Carson ‘sleepy’ Sandmann, John Edward ‘long john’ Silver, and Sebastian ‘Atlas’ Williams, aboard a Beech 18, Boeing B-29 Superfortress, Boeing 314 Clipper, and a Scottish Aviation Twin Pioneer and share in his adventures from Newfoundland to Mexico to Malaysia in the late 1960’s. Hang on to your hats boys. It’s time to fly. Extract from 'Short Finals

Dixie?” “Yeah.” “You ever try to crack an AI?” “Sure. I flatlined. First time. I was larkin’, jacked up real high, out by Rio heavy commerce sector. Big biz, multinationals, Government of Brazil lit up like a Christmas tree.

The hot-shit, skinny-ass white guy in leather pants who takes pulls off Jack Daniel’s bottles while blasting blooze-rock riffs out of his Gibson—that archetype is finished, and it’s never coming back.

You just had to know how to do it, and when to do it, and most important of all, why to do it. Powerful substance like this, Lowell would explain, it wasn't there just for any casual jack-off recreational urge. It was there to allow you to do things. To empower you, he said, so you could do things and, best of all, finish them.